


Bedsheet Ghosts

by chewysugar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, Haunting, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Possession, Rimming, Sam is 16, Sharing a Bed, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, dean is 20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10987290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: If Sam and Dean had known the kind of imprint left behind on the old Queen size mattress, they'd have probably just slept on the floor.





	Bedsheet Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an attempt to play with the whole "Sam and Dean share a bed and that leads to fucking" trope. 
> 
> Did I pull it off? You be the judge.

One thing was to be agreed upon: the bed should have been the first thing to have gone after the bodies were discovered in it. For though the manner of death wasn’t at all gruesome, the fact was that two people had lost their lives on the Queen sized mattress, and the residue of death not withstanding, it was a ghastly thing to expect good, ordinary people to sleep soundly on a mattress that had seen death.

The owner of Number Ten, Roosevelt Boulevard, was a fiscally responsible man, and though the death attracted some amount of attention from the people of New Castle, Delaware, they went about their merry way once it was learned that the young couple had simply committed suicide together. Not that it was entirely unexpected. Even at the height of the Sexual Revolution, the thought of two men together was simply not something that a body chose to reveal to polite society.

Decades had past since the owner, drawn by the funk of death one summer’s day when he came to collect the rent, found his tenants of only a few hours dead in their bed, with nothing but an ashtray on the nightstand to suggest the rumor of the cause of their demise. Investigators would later determine that the two lovers—one of them a draft dodger from the Vietnam war—had laced their _Lucky Strikes_ with antifreeze, shared one cigarette before bed, and died together as they’d lived. The house and most of its meager possessions was combed over, yet in almost thirty-five years, the owner, now a round-bellied, jowl faced old man, hadn’t thought to ever get rid of the mattress and bed frame.

Deviously, he’d simply gone through the motions of changing the bead spread and polishing the solid cedar headboard. It was his back and his bones, he’d say whenever some unlucky soul extracted this information from him over drinks. He couldn’t lift both mattress and frame out of the building. Besides, with the advent of fabric fresheners, he’d cleaned the mattress so many times and changed the linens that those who chose to rent the house for weekend or a long vacation scarcely ever paid much heed to the fact that the object in which they laid themselves to sleep had been there longer than some of them had lived, and had also held two dead bodies once upon a time.

So it was, one day towards the end of an unseasonably sweltering May long weekend, that the owner met up with a rough looking man and his two teenage sons. The owner listened patiently as the man with the haunted eyes and the scraggly beard said that he’d be out on a hunting trip, and that his boys would have the run of the place for a few days. As had been the case during many of his prior interactions with potential tenants, the owner didn’t buy the man’s story for a bottle of Coca-Cola.

Yet the newcomer had driven up the cul de sac in a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, sleek and black as tar and as all-American as it was possible to be. Anyone who drove a beauty like that and kept it in pristine condition deserved at least a modicum of the benefit of the doubt.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the owner was walking down the street homewards, relieved of the spare set of keys to Number Ten, and watching out of the corner of his eye as the classic car went speeding down the street, his new tenant alone in the front bench.

* * *

It was the usual song and dance for Sam and Dean Winchester. Left to their own devices at a little home with little to do and little to no knowledge about when their father would be back from his new hunt. To make matters worse, Dad had neglected to tell them that, save for a rickety table, folding chairs and the Queen sized mattress in the only bedroom, the bungalow was devoid of furniture.

“Maybe he’s trying to tell us that we need to spend more time outside?” Dean suggested.

“You’ve got enough freckles as it is,” Sam replied.

“Can I help it if I like sunbathing in the nude?”

“And that is why we keep bouncing from town to fucking town.”

“Watch your mouth, bitch.”

“Make me, jerk.”

Neither boy particularly hated the heat, or the idea of spending time in it. They’d been driving across the Interior for days, and their latest venture in their father’s world had kept them cooped up in a snow-bound cabin on Little Lake Pequaywan, Minnesota for almost an entire month.

To the ordinary observer, the relationship between the only sons of John and Mary Winchester appeared volatile. They would snip at one another in verbal sparring matches the likes of which were typically reserved for soap opera fodder. Yet nobody knew the depths of their devotion to one another, at times not even the two of them. Having had to contend with their father’s temper of late—which Sam had quietly compared to that of an adolescent grizzly bear kicked out of its mother’s den through violent bitings and beatings (something Dean was quietly inclined to agree with)—the boys leaned on each other even more than usual.

So what would once have been arguments between them about who had to lay the salt lines or what would be ordered for dinner were now telepathic moments of understanding. Sam set the lines around the door and windows while Dean used the landline to call in for an uncharacteristically healthy ordering of Thai food.

“Hey, we didn’t get a lot of run around time at Lake Gonna-Bore-You-To-Death,” was Dean’s shrugged explanation when the fragrant, spicy, healthy food arrived forty-five minutes later.

“Is that you’re way of saying I’m getting fat?”

“Sure, because when you’re fat you can play a xylophone solo on your ribs.” Dean would never admit it unless under great duress, but he worried about more than just his little brother’s physical safety. Sam was sixteen now, and was rapidly leaving behind the days of being an annoying little moptop. Nearly at the height of Dean’s shoulder and with long, awkward limbs, he was, in fact, becoming an annoying _big_ moptop, albeit an undernourished one.

Sam had the grace to look ashamed of not having given his brother the benefit of the doubt. “Thanks, Dean.” He gulped down his pad Thai.

“No sweat.”

In spite of Dean’s words, there was quite a lot of sweat. The mercury had risen sharply in that part of the country, and the heat had been unbearable in the Impala. Without air conditioning or any oscillating fans to speak of, the two Winchester brothers had to contend themselves with using old newspapers found in the crawl space to keep cool.

“He couldn’t have picked a worse place for use to have to share a bed,” Sam said as the sun began to set at the appallingly late hour of ten o’clock. “This is going to suck the meat, dude.”

“Forgive me if I don’t bare ass it,” Dean said. He’d had his eyes closed for the better part of an hour, his legs kicked up on the sill of the bay window that looked out over the front yard. “I’m all for getting a full body tan, but there’s not a porn star’s chance in a convent that I’m going to sleep with my goods out around my kid brother.”

Sam shuddered at the very thought. “Thanks for the mental image. Wanna give me anymore trauma while you’re at it?”

“You know that middle-aged couple across the lake from us? The Bamford's?”

Sam narrowed his eyes, gripping his newspaper fan tightly in preparation to fling it at his brother. “Yes. What about them?”

“I saw them fucking one day. Looked like two snapping turtles going on it. All those wrinkles and dangly bits. Ow! That hurt!” Sam had thrown his newspaper across the room in a fit of disturbed rage.

“You deserved it, ass.”

The minutes ticked by as the street darkened. At long last, Dean stretched his arms and kicked his legs off of their resting place on the window sill. “Wanna hit up the shower before me? I wanna let my balls air out a little bit first.”

“And risk not being around for this riveting conversation? Get out of my way.” Sam practically sprinted to the shower, Dean’s laughter ringing in his ears.

The best thing that could be said about the bathroom was that the water remained hot far longer than it had at the last six places they’d stayed at. Sam could have done without the garish, yellow wallpaper and the ugly floral tiles on the floor. Dean could have done with more hot water, given that he liked to engage in a not-so-quick bout of masturbation before turning in for the night. Both boys could have done with a bigger shower in general.

“Christ,” Dean sighed as he sauntered into the only bedroom in the house. “I swear to God the people who lived here when this house was built were probably extras on the _Wizard of Oz_. Hey, are you sure you’re not going to baste yourself to death in that?”

Sam was lying on top of the sheets in a pair of Dean’s old sweat pants and one of Uncle Bobby’s old _Depeche Mode_ t-shirts.

“M’good,” Sam muttered. “Hey, does this bed smell like old cigarettes to you?”

“If this is a trick to get me to take a whiff of a Sam Winchester fart, you’re going to be sleeping on the sidewalk.”

Sam sat up. “No, seriously.”

Dean stooped, took a hit from the pillow and nodded. “Yeah. It does kinda smell like a _Lucky Strike_. Want me to see if I can get the smell out? We’ve got, like, flowers and shit in the front yard. Could always rub the pillows down with ‘em or something.”

“Nah, I’m good. Just kinda took me by surprise is all.”

Dean, dressed in nothing but his briefs, flopped down on the bed, making the springs creak under his added weight. As was always the case whenever the brothers were forced to share sleeping space, neither put so much as an ankle over the invisible Mason-Dixon line that they’d both silently set up between them.

“Think he’ll be gone long?” Dean asked, staring at the ceiling with his arms behind his head.

“Don’t know,” Sam mumbled into his pillow. What Dean knew Sam was thinking was, “I hope.”

Dean sighed. It was another house in another part of the country and another hunt that could end either in twenty minutes or a year. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes.

“Night, Sam.”

“G’night, Dean.”

Sam fell asleep in less than ten minutes. He was one of the rare types who could nod off under any circumstance. Dean, in spite of a pleasant session with his dominant hand in the confines of the cramped shower, didn’t sleep right away. He lay awake dutifully, listening to the sounds of whirring traffic going up and down Roosevelt Boulevard. A slight breeze rustled through the wooden blinds covering the bedroom window. Dean’s nose prickled at the smell of the cigarette smoke proliferating his pillow, but almost as soon as his annoyance mounted at the invasive aroma, it was chased away by the fragrant flowers and cool, clean night air.

His eyelids grew heavy, and soon he followed his little brother suit into sleep.

Had either of the Winchester’s been awake, they would have felt the strange heaviness in the air around the room. The might even have picked up on the smell of cigarette smoke getting stronger. And had they both been really alert, they might have even seen the blinds flutter as if disturbed be a passing intruder.

But both boys slept soundly as the presence in the room grew, seeping out from the springs and coils of the Queen size mattress where two young lovers had taken their lives decades before either Winchester had been born. It was a curious thing, this presence, one born not from lingering spirits, but the power left behind—the force of a bond so strong that it had taken lives, and remained behind for thirty long years.

Now, it was a strange thing that while the bed had indeed known its fair share of lovers after the deaths of its original owners, it had never rested two people simultaneously who did not share a mutual feeling of sexual interest. Those who’d slept on it in the years following the tragic double suicide had taken lovers to its surface many a time, and had never once wondered as to why their passion always mounted to supernova heat when they were atop it. To them, it was a bed, nothing more or less.

The force that had settled into its pockets and stitching did not discern the two boys sleeping soundly on its surface as being anything other than two people. As it had done in the years after the passing of the two young lovers, it took hold of the Winchester’s with a slow, gradual caress. It slid around Dean’s bare legs, skirting his freckled skin and sinking into his pores. It danced over Sam’s body, slipping under his ratty old shirt like the hand of a lover, feeling the muscles of his chest that he had yet to fully grow into. Still fast asleep, Sam unknowingly breathed the presence in, subconsciously becoming aware of the acute tang of cigarette smoke in his lungs.

He rolled over, his bare foot crossing that border between himself and Dean, and kicking his older brother awake in the process.

Bright green eyes snapped open as if a rocket had gone off near Dean’s ear. He did not know where he was, only that he was filled with a need so profound that it made his every muscle ache in the rawness of it. The front of his briefs were already stretched to capacity, pushed to the brink by his erect cock.

He felt drunk on an alien substance. Once the need, the desire, was pegged in his mind, he couldn’t let go of it, or rather, it would not let go of him. Dean sat up, and looked to the figure sleeping beside him. Through his stupor, he knew that he should know this slumbering form as something familiar, something so entirely out of the scope of his painful lust that the mere thought of it as sexual was too cruel and perverse.

But whatever had hold of him wasn’t thinking of this sleeping Adonis as anything other than a beautiful object of his undying affection—someone that he would do anything for and everything to.

The presence woke Sam just as suddenly as it had awakened Dean, only it chose to bide its time, so that the younger Winchester only become conscious when he felt the smooth, sensuous circles being massaged into his side. Someone had a large, calloused hand under his shirt.

He knew he should have known who it was right away, but every time his mind tried to grasp onto the identity, the solution evaded him. He was left with the simple understanding that whoever was caressing his skin loved him unceasingly, and that he himself was also painfully hard.

The body that had once been entirely Sam Winchester rolled over and crashed into the bigger body that had once been entirely Dean Winchester. They were together again, their skin hot and flush as they reenacted the touches, kisses and moans of a love that had long since died.

Hands that had once reached out with fire-forged fraternity now explored places that had been unknown to each other. The stifling presence moved lips against lips, tongues against tongues; soon both brothers were bare to each other save for Sam's t-shirt. Sam’s body was a treasure trove of sacred purity. Dean explored every inch of it under the bidding influence of whatever it was that had seized hold of him. Every touch felt like the branding of fire; Dean kissed and tongued places on his brother’s body that Sam had never, not even in his filthiest adolescent fantasies, thought of as remotely erogenous.

Love and lust long buried under the sheets of the Queen sized bed spiraled and pulled, playing through the Winchester’s the lovemaking of two souls who’d left their mark on the world of the physical.

Slick and wet from Dean’s sinful tongue, Sam braced himself against the headboard, gasping as memories that were not his own flashed behind his eyes like a dream. He saw himself as a young man with shaggy blonde hair, burning a conscription notice like it was a marshmallow in the backyard fire pit. The figure next to him, tall and solid as a brick wall, laughed, pulling him in for a resounding kiss.

Yes.

This was there home, their bed. This was their lust, their love, one that hadn’t died when they’d both decided to leave the cruel, cold world.

Dean devoured the virgin flesh like a starving man. His own aching hardness leaked sticky globs of clear precum onto the bed sheets. It had been like this before, he remembered. He was always the dominant one, the protector. Yet in the end it hadn’t been enough to save his beloved from the slings and arrows of the backwards corner of the world they inhabited.

Here, at least for a little while, he could be with the one who’d made it all bearable for the few years they’d loved and laughed and lived together.

Sam looked over his shoulder through his length of dark hair.

“P-please.” He spoke in a voice quaking with need, his sweat pants long discarded, his t-shirt teasingly still covering his chest.

“Yes.” Dean sighed the word, climbing up the bedspread. He kissed the back of Sam’s shoulder, and slowly pushed himself into the tight heat of Sam’s body. Sam cried out, a scream of passion and pain that had echoed throughout the bedroom thirty years prior.

Though both possessed of the spiraling, watching presence, Sam and Dean were not physically attuned to the feeling of both being inside another man and having another man inside them. Dean, as the most experienced of the two, was able to hold off, but Sam came almost minutes after having his once virgin body breached. His seed splattered the pillows, but Dean did not relent. He was, again, the more sexually experienced, though he’d never felt the exquisite tightness of a man’s body before. His hips bucked as his brain became overwhelmed by the new sensation. Ropes of sticky come filled Sam’s channel, and Dean did not pull out until he was fully spent.

The brothers collapsed, gasping for air and soaked with semen and sweat.

Never before had the presence in the mattress felt something so vicarious. It seemed as if the deceased that it lingered on for had truly lived through the two beautiful boys now tangled up in each others arms and legs. Beyond the void, beyond even the reach of the love and desire that had been pent up for thirty years, two souls who had flown together through infinity paused, feeling the tremor that rippled through the ether.

Two souls had lived their passion, had matched their need, and had lived in futuristic syncopation with the tribulations and trials of their own love. Knowing this, they held their hands out and pulled the presence from the plane of the real and the mortal. It flew from the bed like a ghost, longing to once more be a part of the bond that had created it in the first place, leaving the Winchester brothers sleeping with the evidence of their sin around them and on their skin.

* * *

Morning sunlight crept through the slats of the wooden blinds. Dean Winchester opened his eyes with a feeling of dread so palpable and foreign to him that, for a moment, he wondered who he was and where it was that he was resting.

The first thing he could discern, and it made his heart and stomach both ache in ways he’d never known they could, was the smell. The stale aroma of cigarettes had disappeared from the pillows, but the heady tang of sex hung in the air like an accusing finger.

He felt as if an entire block of Antarctic ice weighed him down. Sitting up was painful, all the more so because he saw that the sheets were disheveled, stained in places with sweat and come, and that his briefs were lying on the floor near the heat register.

Memory flooded back with the force of a tidal river, carrying with it all things toxic and poisonous. He looked at the other side of the bed and, finding it empty, immediately sprang to his feet. Sam was gone, and Dean knew his brother too well to not begin to panic. Sam was sensitive, and whatever had happened last night had likely sent him running for the hills.

Dean threw a pair of old shorts and a muscle shirt on hastily, his heart hammering in his ears. Sam wasn’t anywhere in the house, but he did, mercifully, respond when Dean shouted his name several times.

Sam was sitting in the backyard, under the shade of a large oak tree. His face was blank, and that was possibly the worst thing for it to be.

There was silence between them. It was growing to be another sweltering day. Sparrows chirped around the trees and gardens in the neighborhood. Somewhere nearby the neighbors screamed and laughed, enjoying a pool party under the heat of the sun.

After clearing the catch from his throat, Dean began with a ceaseless litany of apologies whose flow he could not stop. He’d decided somewhere between the bedroom door and the back patio that whatever had happened the night before had entirely been his fault. As the eldest, it was his responsibility to do the right thing, to ensure that Sam didn’t come to any harm and to keep his impulses in control. His success at the latter oftentimes failed, but he’d never, ever even entertained the notion of crossing the line between brothers in such a grievous way.

Sam’s big hazel eyes widened as Dean continued to babble on and on about how much of a colossal fuck up he was, and about how Sam had to go to the police or to Uncle Bobby, who would most likely blast Dean’s nuts off with a shotgun which, as Dean pointed out, was the least of what he deserved.

“Would you fucking shut up for a second?” It came out as a bark, and Sam hadn’t meant it to. But Dean was carrying on and on, without showing any clear indication of ceasing his self-flagellation.

Dean’s mouth closed with a snap, and he stared at Sam, his freckled face turning slightly pink.

Sam blinked sunlight out of his eyes as he held his brother’s gaze. Having woken up several hours before Dean as was his custom, he’d had more time to be horrified about the previous night’s occurrence, discern the facts from the fantasies, and come to several conclusions on his own, the chiefest of which was that he still loved his brother.

“Do you really think that I think that you’re capable of doing something like that of your own free will?”

“Well…no, but that’s besides the point don’t you think, Sammy?”

“No, it’s not, and don’t call me that right now.” Sam raked his fingers through his hair. “Something obviously got hold of us, yeah?”

Dean nodded, hating that he was relieved at the notion.

“So we’ll just salt the bed. Or sleep somewhere else. There’s a motel down the street. Maybe tell Dad that there’s something off with the house.”

“Right.”

Silence again. Then, in a rush, Dean said, “But that still doesn’t take back the fact that I…that we…”

“I know.” Sam’s voice was oddly passive. He got to his feet, brushing dirt off the ass of his jeans. “But let’s just…let’s just set it aside for now, yeah?”

“You sure?”

“Completely. Besides it’s…it’s not like I haven’t, y’know…had it cross my mind. At least once.”

Dean grinned in spite of the fact that he knew he should have been horrified. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, puberty, right? Besides, we like, breathe the same air twenty-four-seven and you’re…y’know, not half bad looking.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“And am I going to be lucky enough to get one of those in return?”

“Sure, here's your compliment. You have a really tight ass, Sam.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean!”

“Hey, you asked, bitch.”

“Fuck off, jerk.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Watch where you put your mouth.”

They were walking back towards the house, their horror and discomfiture left behind like a memory. Or, at the very least, that's what they told themselves.

It only took a quick call to their father, not that they told him in explicit detail what had happened. Before dusk settled they were handing the keys to the landlord and hoofing it to the Doubletree six blocks away.

* * *

The owner of the house shook his head as he did his typical post-move out inspection. He found the bed in disarray, and with telltale stains on it to boot.

He’d so hoped that the residual energy would have had the decency to recognize two brothers when it saw them, but that had, evidently, been wishful thinking. Through rote, he twitched the bedding aside, stuffed it into a large laundry bag and went to take the cases off the pillows.

He paused, cocking his head to the side. Thankful that there was nobody to watch him, he pressed the pillow to his nose and took a deep breath.

The smell of old _Lucky Strikes_ had disappeared.

**Author's Note:**

> I was a proliferate fan of Wincest throughout my teens and early twenties. Then I hit twenty-three, looked at myself in a mirror while drinking a thing of Tito's vodka and said, "Chewy, you are not romanticizing incest anymore, even if it is gay fan fiction incest." 
> 
> Obviously I'm not very good at keeping promises. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
